


3 am Call from Paris

by donttellmemyusernameisused



Category: The Hour
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 00:42:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7553581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donttellmemyusernameisused/pseuds/donttellmemyusernameisused
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>//She understood the rosy lie he told himself each day, that his passion for truth was more intense than his desire for anyone, that being a single-minded journalist with no other goals in life other than telling the truth to the public was enough.//</p><p>A story that spanned from Season 1 to Season 2.  A look into the friendship that Freddie and Lix built.</p>
            </blockquote>





	3 am Call from Paris

Lix knew that look on Freddie. She knew what it was like to be hopeless. She supposed by now the dull disappointment of Bel running off with yet another man did not quite get under Freddie’s skin anymore. It was not the first time, and it would not be the last. His hand would not tremble like it used to and his skin would not itch. He would imagine the day when the dull disappointment would be so light that he could shake it off like a dog shaking off water after a bath, but that night he would need to order another drink. Lix appreciated that he managed to stop before the second sip. She moved towards him and stood there as he put down his whiskey. 

He looked at her –– Lix, he thought. It was a name and an adjective all at once. She was in the most practical, unassuming clothes that a woman, or anyone, could wear, inviting him for a dance. She did not close and open, and her hands were much larger than rain. Her eyes did not take him away to a land of unknown. She was not Bel. But like everything that did not have the novel shiftiness of a love poem, she was undeniably steady. Her hand was clean and dry like every other part of her and Freddie knew she understood. 

She understood the rosy lie he told himself each day, that his passion for truth was more intense than his desire for anyone, that being a single-minded journalist with no other goals in life other than telling the truth to the public was enough. She understood the sense of defeat he felt every time he was reminded of the reality and the petty sense of triumph he had when he managed to ignore the defeat for a bit. 

So they danced, kissed, and had sex. Because really, what else could have been done apart from giving each other a little bit of fun?

Lix loved the boy, not romantically but not quite as a friend. Sometimes as an older sister or a mother, but those felt wrong too, especially every time when she called him back to the office to “wait for a 3 am phone call from Paris together”. Perhaps she loved him like she loved her 27 year old self. A fragilely brave human being that was so naive and wise at the same time. Lix wanted to teach him everything to make that lie sail. He could not survive any other way –– too brilliant a journalist to quit doing what he did but not brilliant enough not to be a fool. 

The look Bel had when she asked her about Freddie and the cinema was priceless. Some part of her wanted to be harsh, say something the sweet Freddie would never say because she felt terribly sorry for the boy, but she did not, because it was not in her place to say, not when they were just waiting for a phone call together. 

Then, he left to find himself. He never wrote her a letter nor send her a postcard. Yet, one night, he sent her a wedding photo. His wife’s idea of a wedding dress was an overlong white cardigan that barely covered her bottom and his idea of a wedding suit was a worn-out dark coat over a shirt that had something like tea-stain on it. The photo arrived at 3 am. She was woken up by the obvious sound of someone breaking in. She was ready to attack with the blanket in her hands. But the man stopped at her door and an envelope slipped through its gap. On the envelop was her name, address, stamp and the words “WEDDING PHOTO” in bold, capital letters. Inside the envelop was the photo. The back of the photo had two words: from Paris. She laughed and shaked her head. She wondered what that meant. Was the wife another coat on his lie, or did he truly move on?

Randall came back as the new head of news. She almost begged the God she did not believe in to send Freddie back. She needed a comrade, one that understand what a terrible lie she told herself for years, that chasing a story after another was enough. 

She should start going to Sunday morning services, she mused as Freddie charged right through the door, finishing Bel’s sentence.

Lix smirked, boy, did he grow up. He stood straighter and held himself with an air of confidence that Lix used to thought belonged to Hector. She patted his back as soon as she got a chance. Well done, my beautiful boy, well done. He beamed right back. Her hand tensed when Randall passed them by. Freddie looked at her questioningly. 

That night, Freddie showed up at her office door. She was in between flashbacks of the past when she heard his knock. He was no longer dressed with whatever he found at the nearest distance. His suit, though not very expensive, matched perfectly. He looked at her patiently until she let her in. 

“Having an affair already, Mr Lyon?” she teased.  
“I just wanted to share some whiskey. Camille said it was fine,” he smiled disarmingly at her. Lix almost mourned for the lost of the little boy that kissed her so gently on his 27th birthday, but this Freddie was horrendously charming. 

Freddie had rearranged himself a lot, but Lix hardly did any rearranging at all. She still wore her practical and unassuming clothes, looking steadily at him. That was what he liked about her, unfazed, unsurprised and unmoved in the most passionate way. But her steady presence was wavered this morning when Mr. Brown passed her by. He spared no time to ask, because if the wait for a 3am phone call from Paris was anything, it was this, a moment for honest vulnerability. She did not flinch or show any sign of discomfort apart from a sip of whiskey, copying what he did on 27th birthday so many lifetimes ago. 

She laughed at the odd sense of déjà vu before telling him everything. He did not leave that night, but he did not do anything other than kissing her forehead, gentle as ever.

The next morning Randall barged into the office at the crack of dawn. Whatever he came here to say died in his throat as soon as he saw Freddie with her in the makeshift bed rinsing his mouth with whiskey. The Freddie in the past might look embarrassed, but this Freddie just nodded and reached for his tie. Randall obviously wanted to talk to her alone but Freddie did not let that happen. He asked, in true Freddie Lyon manner, with the falsely innocent smile he used whenever he patronised one of Bel’s bankers, “breakfast, Mr. Brown?” Randall left uneasily. Lix kissed his lips and said “thank you”. It was tradition after all. 

Freddie did not break up any more of the tête-à-tête she had with Randall. Lix was however touched by the silent protective manner he had for her, showed by a soft solid press of his shoulder against hers whenever Randall said something that unsettled her within his earshot. She wondered what Randall made of her new comrade. She was overly proud. 

The day Randall asked for the birth certificate she went back to her flat for the first time in weeks. She threw everything she could remove from her body onto the floor because she could not think of anything else to do. She sat there, naked and cold and numb, on the too dusty floor of the living room that might actually be her bedroom until she could move again. She called the first person she could think of. 

“You speak French better now, so I guess this can loosely quality as a call from Paris,” was the first thing she said.

He laughed groggily and she heard him murmured to Camille to go back to sleep. Lix was reminded that she was not in the office. Phone calls from Paris only happened in the office under the facade of being a journalist. 

“I like Paris. It’s the sort of place people would make stupid decisions,” he breathed. She wondered if he was talking about Camille.

“He wanted to find her,” Liz said. 

“An advice from Paris would be to do the stupidest thing possible. This is the sort of thing you can’t regret doing,” he replied, jokingly pretentious. Lix could imagine his tired boyish smile, fading away at the corner of his eyes into something more delicate. She did not reply, still sitting on the dusty floor. At some point she had fallen asleep and Freddie ended the call. 

Things were different now. Not because Freddie was married, but because she found the sturdy fortress she built for herself crumbling down. She used to love Freddie like she loved her 27 year old self. She wanted to teach him everything about keeping up with the lie, never stopping, never questioning, but now she was turning back into this younger version of Lix, hopeful and foolish and scared. She was afraid that Freddie would be disappointed in her. 

For what it was worth, Freddie only admired her more. Lix frequented the ladies now, he noticed, and she always came back with her glasses slightly tilted, her lips pursed together, but her voice never quivered and her work was just as brilliant. Freddie needed that steadiness more than ever as the glamorous dream of the 60s fell apart along with his marriage. The death of an innocent girl broke through the air in a scream that he could not hear. The silence that followed was louder than anything he could imagine. It was like Ruth again, except this time even quieter. Even Bel was stopping him from pursuing the story, really stopping him, not the half-baked job she usually did to humour the BBC people.

“I hate her! I bloody hate her!” He threw his arm in the air as he shut himself in Lix office. Of course things got to him, would he be here if things didn’t? How dare Bel suggested otherwise? It’s madness, bloody madness. 

“No, you don’t,” Lix offered him a cigarette, “now go and finish the story.” She smiled knowingly at him. Freddie was again reminded of what all it was about. The lie both of them told themselves for so long, that their passion for truth was more intense than the desire for anyone. He closed his eyes, already forming a plan to pursue the story. He knew later he would ask Bel again, using everything he had to make her come with him but right now, he would pretend Bel did not matter, so he said to Lix, “Who cares what she says? I am going to get the story no matter what.” 

He did not quite catch whether Lix’s laugh was mocking or just sad. It did not matter –– he was already outside Lime Grove when he realised she laughed at him. 

Bel came around at the end and showed up in El Paradis, but before he let the small victory set in, he was yanked away by the hustle. He dived into making the story again, maybe this time the story would outrun Bel. 

It did not, obviously as he dragged his injured body back to Lime Grove, wanting to see Bel again. As he lied on the grass, he wanted wait for another phone call with Lix again. He needed to tell her that he had given up on lying, because it was so pointless at the end, but he supposed she already knew, if the way Lix started gravitating towards Randall was anything to go by.


End file.
